


for sale: heart, never used

by vallhalla



Series: The Fabulous Life and Times of Dallon Weekes [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Growing Up, Kinda?, M/M, Texting, The power of friendship, Underage Drinking, Weed, alcoholism and borderline weed addiction, cheesey stuff, how did they make that happen?, like you could dip your chips in this, lots of things happen underage, probably sex but I never come out and say it ;), really intense Mario Kart, seriously high stakes mario Kart, the word 'dildo' is said at some point, twelve people in a dorm room, underage partying?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 15:52:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10250723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vallhalla/pseuds/vallhalla
Summary: What do you call fourteen poor college students living in a four bedroom apartment?A mess.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be posted last Wednesday, but then I lost power. Sorry about that.
> 
> Special thanks to Sarah and Nick, who beta'd for me, Ellie and Aidan, who will never read this, and the entirety of "Dallon's no. 1 homos/Dallon's LIPS/FAR UP Dallon's ass", without you guys I don't know where I'd get to talk about Dallon without sounding crazy. 
> 
> Bonus stuff in the end notes!

It’s hard to pinpoint where it all begins; Was it when I met Spencer and Jon? When I broke up with my first steady girlfriend? Maybe it was the night of the first Gabe Saporta party I ever went to, or my twenty-first birthday. Walking into an empty coffee shop at three am? Sending my foot straight through Josh’s bass drum? Frank’s “charity” concert? Sleeping on the floor of a stranger’s apartment? Pete and Mikey having sex on my couch? Our neighbors complaining about us disturbing their birds’ peace? The moment I first enrolled into this God forsaken college?

There’s only one person who has been involved in all of these: Ryan Ross.

I can’t really say I _met_ Ryan, because he always just seemed to be _there_. I can never recall being introduced to him, but we sat at the same lunch table in high school because neither of us really had friends. At least, Ryan didn’t have any that sat with him. 

Ryan had an eternally bored looking face and way of speaking, but wasn’t an asshole and knew where to get good weed, which were both good qualities for a friend when you were in high school.

Ryan could play guitar and wrote some pretty good lyrics, which were just an added bonus. We liked to share our music with each other during lunch, trying to one up each other each day. He had a sad song? I countered with one about a murder most foul. When I walked into lunch with a love song about vampires in twentieth century france riding bikes, he returned the next day with an upbeat little piece about the sun and the moon falling in love. When he found out I was applying to Chicago for music, he mentioned in passing a week later that he heard that they had a good English program.

Strangely enough, Ryan was quick to make friends there, whereas I typically stuck to myself, only going to parties when Ryan went and staying by myself throughout the day. It got to the point where halfway through our first semester Ryan was making friends  _ for  _ me, because Jon and Spencer started to come around more and more often, not just popping up at parties anymore. Apparently Jon was an English major in one of Ryan’s classes. To this day I don’t know why Spencer always tagged along, but he proved himself to be useful and good at picking up rhythms, so he was allowed to sit on my bed with me.

May fourth was my nineteenth birthday and Gabe Saporta’s end of the year party, so I was forcefully dragged along, even though I had my music theory final the upcoming Thursday. I sipped my beer in a corner until I was talked into doing shots with a stranger. He looked me in the eye (or close as he could get, because this was the shortest guy I’ve ever met) and challenged me to drink as many shots as I could. He vomited halfway through his ninth shot, but I made it to twelve before I promptly turned to Ryan and ruined his shoes. As Ryan proceeded to yell at me, the stranger calmly walked over, handed me a beer, introduced himself as Frank Iero, and told me that I only won because I was a foot taller than him. 

The rest of the night is foggy, but I can give you a list of ‘totally happened’, ‘didn’t happen’ and ‘to be determined’. Meeting Frank Iero and Gerard Way (happened). Puking on Ryan’s shoes (definitely happened). Puking,  _again_ _ ,  _ in the hot tub (Didn’t happen). Asked a cop for weed (definitely did not happen. Apparently she was just a sorority girl). Gabe Saporta doing a forward two somersault tuck, naked, into his pool, off the top of the roof (I’ve heard multiple accounts of this moment. Ryan says that it wasn’t  _that_ extravagant of a dive and he  _was_ clothed. Jon says that it was just a backflip off the side of the pool, and he was in his underwear. Spencer swears that he saw Gabe climbing up the side of the building to the roof in a bathrobe. Gerard and Frank both uphold their story that Gabe-mother-fucking-Saporta is only four inches. So, in essence, to be determined).

I wake up upside down in bed with Jon and Ryan on top of me and Spencer’s feet in my face, along with three new numbers in my phone, so it was a good birthday.

The thing is, with Gerard and Frank come Ray and Mikey, and with Mikey comes Pete, and with Pete comes Patrick, Joe, and Andy and suddenly I have more friends in a week than I did in the past year of college. For some reason they _liked_ cramming into mine and Ryan’s tiny dorm room. (Frank and Patrick liked our collection of game systems. Mikey, Pete, and Ray liked my instruments. Joe liked Ryan’s weed. Andy liked our bean bag. Jon and Spencer came for their usual reasons and then some)

The summer between semesters was a hot and lonely one. I spent most of my time crammed into my bedroom attempting (and failing) to write lyrics to melodies I couldn’t piece together. Ryan came by when he could, to talk about moving in the fall, but he got a job, or a girlfriend, or something that I could never bother to remember. I got a haircut somewhere mid-july, when it became too long and too hot to stand, and when Ryan and I moved back to Chicago in August, was met with pleasantries.

“Did you do something with your hair?” Yes, Joe.

“Jesus, Dallon, you look like you should be in a boy band.” Not with _this_ music degree, Patrick.

“I liked your emo hair.” Except it isn’t 2006, Mikey.

With Ryan, Jon, Spencer, and I living together in an apartment rather than a dorm, the other guys came around more than they had before, since there was _room_. Gerard crashed on our couch on days where he had late classes one night and early ones the next day. Frank and Patrick _still_ use our Nintendo 64 for their mario kart rivalry that went unfulfilled all summer. Whenever Andy’s neighbors complained about him drumming too loudly he came to annoy our neighbors instead. One time I walked into the kitchen and found a pot of brewed coffee and a goodbye note from Ray, who I hadn’t even known had stayed the night.

Sometime in October Pete convinced all of us to go see a band play in a shitty bar, even though Gerard and Pete were the only ones who could buy drinks. The band was barely even a band, just a scrawny guy with a ukulele (and _hey_ , that was my thing, wasn’t it?) and another dude with bright yellow hair who played the drums. They were good though, which was kind of the best and shittiest thing ever, because by the end of the night we were all a little drunk from sneakily passing around Pete and Gerard’s beers, giggling and cheering at everything they did. 

Afterwards, they introduced themselves to us, because who doesn’t want to know the rowdy group of drunk guys at your gig?

(Apparently Tyler was in Pete’s philosophy class and had mentioned the gig to Pete, who had promised to bring  _ all _ of his friends if Tyler shared the answers to the homework Pete didn’t do. It was a fair trade, even if it turns out that they both received a C+ on the homework anyway)

(And as we helped Josh and Tyler load the drums into the back of a sketchy van, I joked to Ryan how _funny_ it would be if I accidentally kicked the bass drum. My barely drunk mind spoke too soon, and I ended up paying Josh $15 for a broken bass head)

So twelve became fourteen, and Josh was the reigning mario kart champ, much to Patrick and Frank’s dismay. And it was nice to have Tyler around, who could help me write Christmas music (instead of Ryan, who always had to find a way to fit some deeper meaning in there) and can tune a ukulele by ear.

Christmas that year was possibly the most busy our apartment had ever gotten before- with Patrick, Ray, Josh, and Spencer (slowly, but surely) putting up a tree that was _probably_ too large for an apartment that essentially had fourteen people living in it. Our dining room and kitchen had become what can best be described as a gift wrapping station, every surface covered in wrapping paper, tape, and ribbon. Every musical instrument in our house (Ryan’s guitars, Jon’s bass, Spencer’s drums and auxiliary, and my own instruments as the icing on the cake) had been moved into my room, because _I’m_ the music student so it’s the _obvious_ choice. Our alcohol supply was under constant supervision, because with no classes and no reasonable adults, what else are you going to do besides drink to get into the Christmas spirit?

(Christmas day is something right out of the end of a shitty Christmas film. Can you picture the fourteen of us, all crammed onto couches and armchairs and a beanbag as we open gifts? There was probably the trademark frost on the window and snow gently falling in a quiet city. Except it wasn’t quiet, because it’s Chicago, for God’s sake.

Joe has mistletoe hanging above his head at all times, even though he claims to be 100% straight. Pete gets Mikey a bright pink dildo, branded as  _Hello Kinky_ , a pun so atrocious that we all physically groan in astonishment _. _ Unsurprisingly, Mikey just rolls his eyes and tosses it back at Pete. Ryan gets me stickers for my bass, names of bands that I have the records to. Josh and Spencer get each other drumsticks. Patrick unveils a shiny new Mario Kart trophy, to be passed among the victors every time a new one is crowned. Jon tells us that he’s going to propose to Cassie soon. Gerard says he’s going to propose to Frank soon. Then knocks back a shot. Frank kicks him in the balls.

It’s pleasant. The air smells like cheap whiskey and holly. Patrick, Tyler, and Andy drunkenly try to remember the  _12 days of Christmas_ . Ray and Joe are keeping track on their phones. I watch)

New years comes and goes. I kiss a girl I met twenty minutes before the countdown began, and get her number, even though I don’t remember her name the next day. Ryan knew her from a class, or was it Pete? She mentioned she didn’t like rock music four minutes the ball dropped, and that she was majoring in Religious Studies. I tell her I grew up in a Mormon household, then kiss her when the people around us shout “One!”

She didn’t seem to mind, but doesn’t call me. I don’t bother calling her either.

It’s around this time that Frank proposes a charity concert to help fund our weed and alcohol.

“But Frank,” I say, because I am _always_ the voice of reason, “that’s not charity!” I can barely get the words out, because I am giggling and maybe a little high.

Frank ruffles my hair and raises his voice in naivety. “Oh, Dallon, the true charity will be the friends we make along the way!”

Patrick and Mikey raise their hands, and Frank picks on Patrick. “But Frank, why don’t we get jobs like normal, sensible people?” Mikey is giggling, too. So are Joe and Jon on either side of him. 

“My dearest Patrick,” Frank says in a mock-formal tone, but he’s high too, so it doesn’t come out right, “Why the fuck would we do that?”

We all begin to shout various forms of ‘I don’t know, Frank!’ and ‘fuck yeah!’

But the idea sticks, for some odd reason. When we are no longer high two days later, and we’re sitting around the dining table eating cereal dry because we ran out of milk three days ago, Mikey brings it up again. “Guys, we are like. So poor.”

Spencer points an accusing spoon at Mikey. “You don’t even live here.”

Pete gasps and moves to cover Mikey’s eyes, which makes no sense, and I tell them this. I get ignored, because of course I do. “Don’t listen to them, Michael, you can stay as long as you want.”

Mikey shoves Pete off of him, proceeding to pull his t-shirt up to wipe his glasses of Pete’s fingerprints. “What I was _going_ to say, was that we should totally do Frank’s concert thing.”

Frank drops the fork he was using to (badly) shovel cereal into his mouth. “Are you serious?”

Mikey gives Frank his _serious_ look, which is mostly his normal, bitchy face. It was hard to get used to his blank stare, a bit like Ryan in that sense. Which is how we somehow get roped into running a charity concert that isn’t really a charity concert at all, and mostly just a way for us to be able to pay for, you know, the essentials. Weed and beer. And milk, apparently. Maybe some new silverware.

The concert was held in the basement of one of the dorms on campus and is, for some reason unbeknownst to most of us (Gerard suspects Pete bribery), a big hit. With all of us being musicians, we divided up the show into three different acts. The first being Patrick, Mikey, Ryan, and Andy. Josh and Tyler are up second. Frank, Ray, Spencer, and me are last. There were people from all walks of life in that tiny basement- music students who recognize my name, or artists who knew Gerards’ artwork from the posters. Tyler and Pete’s entire _History of Ancient Philosophy_ class, and somehow Gabe Saporta and William Beckett heard about the show through the grapevine, and brought their entire entourage. Joe and Jon were charging four bucks at the door, making up some shit about how we were about to be evicted from our apartment and how we _really_ needed the money.

(They weren’t exactly lying. We’re probably one person away from breaking some sort of capacity of living space rule. Or something)

When the masses leave, we gather on the stage and lay there, occasionally giggling to ourselves. My head is in Ryan’s lap, my bass still in my hands. Andy broke three drumsticks, Josh threw one into the crowd. Mikey and Pete can’t keep their hands off of each other, which doesn’t bother anyone at all, because Frank and Gerard disappeared as soon as Frank got off the stage almost fifteen minutes ago. Jon says he can’t wait to just go home and sleep, because apparently lying to adoring fans and counting money is a lot of work. Joe counters that he can’t wait to buy  _so much fucking weed holy fucking shit dude_ . We all muttered in agreement. 

I don’t go to Gabe’s end of the year party sophomore year, because it falls on my birthday, again, and decide to actually study for my final this time.

Of course, because my friends are fucking idiots, that didn’t go as planned, and we ended up on the roof of our apartment building, with Patrick and Ryan hauling every blanket we own up the steps as the rest of us push and shove the beanbag. Me and Ray go back down for beer and food, with Andy and Tyler close behind to grab guitars and ukuleles and whatever other instruments can be carried by two dudes. I end up on the beanbag, because it’s my birthday and it’s only fair, which just causes Patrick to burst into a very soulful rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’, with Josh as a very shitty backup singer. Halfway through the second chorus I chuck one of the blankets at Josh’s head, but he ducks and it goes straight off the building. Patrick, blissfully drunk on happiness, doesn’t stop playing, even though Ryan is already at the stairs to retrieve his blanket from the street and can still be heard yelling profanities when he reaches the bottom.

It’s a good way to start my twentieth year, and it begins even better when I  _don’t_ wake up crushed by Ryan and Jon or Spencer’s feet near my face. Just the sky, stars barely visible from the Chicago lights, and the loud snores of thirteen other people. Mikey and Pete are on the beanbag with me, but they don’t take up the room of two people, because Mikey is asleep in Pete’s lap anyway.

Two months, a week, and four days after my birthday, I begin to date the girl who lives the floor below us, who recognizes me from our charity show (even though we met while I was  _seeking_ the rest of the guys. She was walking up the stairwell, carrying groceries. I offered to help her carry them upstairs, quickly abandoning the game of hide and seek, hoping she wouldn't bother asking why I, a twenty year old man, was looking behind one of the potted plants in the hallway for my equally as old friend).

As I carry up more bags than she could, she begins to tell me the long and convoluted story of how she came to the concert. (“My boyfriend at the time knew a guy who was seeing a girl who was apparently in the same class as one of the guys running the thing. Apparently he paid her to tell people to come.” I close my eyes. Fucking Pete)

I trudge home with a new number in my phone and friends angry about me abandoning them.

They shut up when I tell them I got a girl’s number, though, and we celebrate by breaking open the champagne we’ve been saving for a special occasion and stomping on the floor, hoping she’ll hear us. 

(We mostly just make the old man who lives directly under us file a complaint, because we woke up his birds. After we shut the door on our landlord, Andy calmly walks over to the kitchen, gets on all fours, and begins to shout profanities at the birds)

On our first date we go get dinner and ice cream, because it’s July and it’s hot, and halfway through the date I realize that Patrick and Josh are four tables away, watching from behind menus. Josh is holding his phone precariously above the menu, presumably FaceTime. While she leaves for the bathroom, I flip them off. Josh yells, “Scram!” and dives underneath the table while Patrick reluctantly follows.

I come home that night to a partially full apartment (Tyler and Pete are studying on the floor in the living room. Joe is making something suspiciously brown in a pot. Gerard is drawing, while Frank poses on the coffee table. Josh and Patrick are nowhere to be found), blissfully quiet, except for the music coming from Gerard’s headphones.

“We kissed,” I say casually, scooping a spoonful of the brown stuff and shoving it into my mouth. It tastes weirdly sweet.

The room was quiet, but now it seems to freeze. Gerard’s pencil is no longer moving, Tyler stops mid page turn. Joe throws a fork at me and says “what the fuck!”

I take another spoonful from the pot, rolling my eyes. “Whose idea was it to send Joshua and Patrick?”

The others return to what they were doing, looking somewhat guilty. I’m quick to make my exit to my bedroom, stopping into Ryan’s on the way. He’s scribbling into a notebook, probably writing new lyrics. He doesn't look up when I walk in, but stops writing. I sit down carefully next to him, cramming myself between him and the wall. He continues to write once I’m settled next to him, occasionally eying me, but I don’t say anything. I fall asleep, at some point, and dream of something I couldn’t tell you about now.

And that, apparently, is that.

It’s strange, at first, because suddenly I’m not spending all of my time immersed in music or my manly-man friends; it becomes the music, my friends,  _my girlfriend_ , a dog and two cats, and less alcohol and weed. The rest of the summer and all of autumn are dwindled down to the two constants of my relationship with this girl and my relationships with my friends. 

Ray leaves the city for a month and a half for a short internship, and no one knows how to work the coffee pot, so we live like zombies off of cheap gas station coffee spiked with vodka.

Mikey and Gerard rush home to New Jersey upon on the news of their grandmother’s death sometime mid november, taking Pete and Frank with them. The apartment is weirdly quiet for the four days they are gone.

Patrick goes off the grid for thirty two days. We’re not sure where he went, but he had new glasses when he came back. When we ask where he went, he simply responds with “Where _didn’t_ I go?” then winks. Except he’s never been very good at it, so it looks more like he’s squinting with one eye.

Ryan and Jon argue over something I don’t bear witness to, so Jon lives with Cassie for a week, then comes back home to apologize with new guitar strings.

The only girl in my life meets the countless men when I have to play bass for some important music show the university is hosting for Christmas, and doesn’t like them. When I take her back to her apartment, we have something I suppose you could call sex. She says ‘I Love You’ right as I say ‘I Don’t Think This Is Going To Work Out’.

She cries, asks me what went wrong, why I didn’t love her.

I shrugged, then went and got crazy stupid drunk with my friends on the roof. So we don’t disturb the birds. Of course.

(Christmas isn’t anything special this year, but to be fair, the one before and the ones after weren’t and won’t be either. We still get drunk. We still get each other stupid gifts, and Jon still hasn’t proposed to Cassie yet. Frank still moves to punch Gerard when he jokes that he hasn’t proposed yet either. Maybe one day, for both of them)

(New Years is spent at Gabe’s, but I don’t kiss anyone. Unless you count a dude named Kenneth, who I made out with on the couch long after the ball drops. I try not to)

(I walk in on Mikey and Pete having sex on the couch on Valentine's day, which sucks because they didn’t stop.

“What are you doing,” I ask tiredly, somehow not extremely bothered by this. It could be Andy and whatever girl he’s seeing at the moment, or Frank and Gerard. Ich.

“What does it look like?” Mikey says, which  _ is _ a very Mikey thing to say. I retreat to my bedroom, and am so desperate to drown out the noise that I turn on the Madonna record that I, for some reason, have, all the way up. This might make Pete groan louder)

Twenty one years old doesn’t feel all that different from the others, especially since I’ve been drinking since midway through my freshman year of college. But Joe and Pete insist we go out anyway, even though I’m supposed to be composing some revolutionary piece of music for the other music students to play. Pete says just slap on some Madonna lyrics, then winks at me. Mikey hits him, which is well deserved.

(This is the point where I’m supposed to recount to you the wild and crazy antics of that night. Something straight out of _The Hangover_ , or those party movies that are getting more and more popular these days. Except nothing really happened, because somehow I was roped into being the designated driver. Funny things happened, yes, like Spencer puking into some girl's’ hair, or Mikey and Pete not being able to keep their hands away from each other on the dancefloor. I nurse a water, because believe it or not _I’m_ the only sensible one, and mange to get everyone up five flights of stairs. Jon, Ryan, and Spencer drag themselves to their own bedrooms as the others move to sleep on any flat surface they can find. 

I run a hand across my face with a sigh, watching the drunk idiots stumble over each other, and wonder how I got so damn _lucky_ )

So.

The most important part of this story. The moment we’ve all been waiting for. It’s the _Luke, I am your father_ moment. This is the part of the movie where there’s a killer score, the kind that’ll win Academy Awards, or the lighting is done just so, the kind that makes you feel something. This is the _feel something_ scene.

And, like most things in my life, starts at a party.

 

-

 

I haven’t been in this apartment before.

It’s like I don’t know the world of parties outside of Gabe Saporta! Which is true, according to Ryan. I haven’t even _lived_ the world of college parties if the craziest party I’ve ever been to was one when I was barely nineteen. This party isn’t anything compared to that, anyhow. It’s an apartment, not a house with a pool. There’s good music, though, and whoever is hosting isn’t charging for drinks, which Joe and Frank are taking full advantage of. Bad move, stranger.

I’m in the kitchen, pleasantly drunk off the free booze, searching for Joe or Jon or Ryan because when I drink I want to smoke, and they always have some weed on them, the bastards. I’m almost to the doorway when I feel my sleeve being grabbed.

I turn to look at the person, expecting to see Andy or Spencer or Tyler, not a stranger. A  _handsome_ stranger, a stranger who is wearing just a white t-shirt and jeans, a stranger whose hair is sort of hanging in his eyes, which could be intentional or not, but I’m inclined to push it back into place, so I do.

The guy raises an eyebrow at me, but doesn’t comment. “Hey, you’re Dallon, right?”

I wiggle my eyebrows at him, because I am drunk. Blegh. “Who’s asking?”

“Ryan is looking for you.” Stranger looks me up and down, and I wonder if I should know him. Do I? He seems to recognize me. I don’t recognize him. Fuck, I want to.

I glance over his shoulder, as if Ryan will be there. He isn’t, but somehow I’m still surprised. I lean on the doorway, only tripping on my feet a little, but it’s still way too smooth for my current drunken state. He snickers at me, and I blink at him. Should I be angry? I don’t think so. I’m a bit of an idiot.

“He’s in the living room, if you want to-” Oh shit, he’s about to leave. I don’t want him to, so I quickly conjure up something Spencer told me once.

“Could this be love at first sight, or should I walk by again?” hahahaha. My cheeks get warm. Hahaha. 

Stranger stares at me, then starts to laugh, and it’s a beautiful sound. I begin to giggle, too. “Are you hitting on me?” Stranger asks, and I nod, because it’s the truth. I’m totally hitting on him. Full homo. It’s his turn to blush, though. He folds his arms, leaning in close to me. I can smell beer, and I think it’s on myself.

I rub my face. “Is it working?”

“Hm, no. Want to start over?”

“Could this be love at first sight-”

“You said that before.” Oh yeah. I did, didn’t I? I move my hand to the back of my neck, then grin at the stranger for no other reason than I want to.

“I’m Dallon.”

The stranger holds out a hand. “Brendon. I’m a music student, too. I’ve seen you play at the university events and stuff.” Brendon seems to consider his next statement as he drops his hand. Oh shit, was I supposed to shake it? “I also went to that charity concert, thing? That you and your roommates put on. My roommate is a few years older than me and he knows one of you guys, or something. I, uh, wasn't a student yet, though. That was, what, two years ago? Two and a half?”

Something like that. 

I’m twenty three, now. Same shitty friends, and a bigger shitty apartment that we’re all paying for, if you can call it an apartment. It’s more like an abandoned building that we turned into something that vaguely resembled something all fourteen of us could fit in. I also have a shitty music degree, and am in the pursuit of some form of higher education in the form of a master's degree. Brendon must be, what, nineteen? Twenty?

“Yeah. I wish we could do that again, we’re getting low on funds again.”

He gives me a knowing look. I tap my nose twice. Brendon grins, then looks around the emptying kitchen. “How trashed do you think this place’ll be tomorrow morning?”

“Oh god, no matter how crazy a party is, or isn't, there's always a major cleanup. I feel sorry for the person running this thing.”

“That would be me.”

I stand up straight. Whoops. Brendon shrugs. “I’m only twenty,” gotcha, “but my roommate, Dan, is twenty two. I control the house, he controls the booze. It’s a nice agreement.”

I nod, then realize I’m probably nodding too much, so I stop. I open my mouth to ask if he’s single, but instead I say, “could I get you a drink?”

Brendon scoffs. “No way, dude. I’m trying my hardest to keep this place clean, can’t do that drunk, can I?” I must pull a sad face, because he looks sympathetic. “Say, I’ll help you find Ryan, how about that?”

 

-

 

When I wake up on the floor, incredibly hungover and sore, my first thought is “wow, when did our floor get this clean?”

It’s then when I realize that this isn’t my floor at all, and I’m sitting up quickly, checking my pockets for my phone and wallet. Both are there. I jump at the sound of a person to my right.

Brendon is sitting cross legged on a spotless couch, chewing on his cereal. With milk, and with a spoon. Lucky. “Oh wow, you're awake? Don’t hungover people usually sleep, for like, ever?”

I rub my eyes and move to stand, which proves to be an extremely difficult task, because Brendon’s right, I’m hungover, and there’s a blanket around my shoulders that is making it harder for me to focus on the ground underneath me. Brendon laughs at me, and oh yes. I remember that now.

I grunt in response, shaking off the blanket and tossing Brendon my phone, who catches it one handed. “I don't usually wake up on strangers floors. Put your number in that.”

Brendon does, and I leave, unsure of where to go because I’m unfamiliar with the area.

Fuck. 

 

-

 

_ To: Brendon Urie    4:38 pm _

_ Thanks for the bed last nite _

 

_ From: Brendon Urie    4:42 pm _

_ Floor _

 

_ To: Brendon Urie    4:42 pm _

_ Comfy floor _

 

_ From: Brendon Urie    5:02 _

_ You're always welcome to sleep on it again _

 

_ To: Brendon Urie    5:03 _

_ I'll try not to mak ea habit of it _

 

-

 

_ From: Brendon    2:56 am _

_ Did u kno that when u snap ur fingers the snapping noise isnt ur finger hitting ur thumb _

 

_ From: Brendon    2:56 am _

_ Its when it hits ur hand _

 

_ From: Brendon    2:57 am _

_ Dallon _

 

_ From: Brendon    2:57 am _

_ Dallon :( _

 

_ From: Brendon    2:58 am _

_ R u asleep like a sensible adult? _

 

_ From: Brendon    2:59 am  _

_ I suck _

 

_ From: Brendon    2: 59 am _

_ U* _

 

_ From: Brendon    2:59 am _

_ Fuck _

 

**_4 missed calls from_ **

**_Brendon_ **

 

-

 

_ To: B    8:01 am _

_ Guess who just spilled coffee all over themselves :)))))) _

 

_ To: B    8:01 am _

**_-attachment-_ **

 

_ From: B    8:04 am _

_ yikes! ! all over the nice blue button up _

 

_ To: B    8:04 am _

_ Im surprised youre even awake right now! _

 

_ To: B    8:05 am _

_ Its all spencers fault _

 

_ From: B    8:10 am _

_ how so _

 

_ To: B    8:11 am _

_ There was a drumstick on the floor _

 

_ From: B    8:30 am _

_ how do you know it wasnt joshua or andrew  _

 

_ From: B    8:34 am _

_ dal? _

 

_ From: B    8:38 am _

_ :( _

 

-

 

_ From: Boyd Boy!     11:23 pm _

_ Holy shit Dallon 23 missed calls???? _

 

_ From: Boyd Boy!     11:24 pm _

_ Don't call me 23 times then leave me on read that's cruel _

 

_ From: Boyd Boy!     11:24 pm _

_ Are you in trouble???? _

 

_ To: Boyd Boy!     11:26 pm _

_ Off courze not _

 

_ To: Boyd Boy!     11:26 pm _

_ Bim havign a great tiem!!!! Did shots w frankie again!! Like ol times!!! Beat out recordss _

 

_ From: Boyd Boy!     11:31 pm _

_ Holy shit youre drunk _

 

**_Missed call from_ **

**_Boyd Boy!_ **

 

_ To: Boyd Boy!     11:45 pm _

_ Im ina closet rigt now but im to tall i broke the light!!! _

 

**_2 missed calls from_ **

**_Boyd Boy!_ **

 

_ To: Boyd Boy!     11:59 pm _

_ I think im in lov w ith yuo _

 

**_5 missed calls from_ **

**_Boyd Boy!_ **

 

_ From: Boyd Boy!    12:09 am _

_ Dallon? _

 

_ From: Boyd Boy!    12:09 am _

_ Youre going to be so hungover tomorrow _

 

**_6 missed calls from_ **

**_Boyd Boy!_ **

 

**_1 new voicemail_ **

 

**_7 missed calls from_ **

**_Boyd Boy_ **

 

**_2 new voicemails_ **

 

_ From: Boyd Boy!    12:15 am _

_ Fuck _

 

-

 

_ To: Boyd Boy!     2:38 pm _

_ Do you want the good news or the bad news first? _

 

_ From: Boyd Boy!     2:40 pm _

_ Good _

 

_ To: Boyd Boy!     2:40 pm _

_ Didn't die of alcohol poisoning  _

 

_ To: Boyd Boy!     2:40 pm _

_ Bad news?? _

 

_ To: Boyd Boy!     2:41 pm _

_ Didn't die of alcohol poisoning _

 

_ From: Boyd Boy!    2:42 pm _

_ You worry me sometimes, dal _

 

-

 

_ From: beebo    5:30 pm _

_ When can I meet your friends _

 

_ To: beebo    5:34 pm _

_ When I think you can handle them? _

 

_ From: beebo    5:35 pm _

_ When can I beginntraining _

 

_ To: beebo    5:37 pm _

_ When I know they won't be weird to you _

 

_ To: beebo    5:37 pm _

_ I'm afraid you'll hate them and i’ll have to break up with you _

 

_ From: beebo    5:49 pm _

_ We aren't even dating _

 

_ From: beebo    5:50 pm _

_ Besides, you can't get rid of me that easily _

 

_ To: beebo    5:50 pm _

_ If only it was that easy _

 

_ From: beebo    5:54 pm _

_ ;) _

 

-

 

I reach out to my phone buzzing on my nightstand in a half asleep attempt to grab it, but manage to knock over several items before I can finally bring it to my ear to answer, not bothering to check the caller ID. “Joe, I swear to God if you’re skinny dipping in the lake again I won’t hesitate to tell the cops this time-”

“Close, but no cigar. I’m afraid I don't look as good naked as Joseph Trohman does.”

I sit up in bed, leaning on my elbows. “Brendon?”

“The one and only. What're you up to?”

“Sleeping.” I look over at my clock, the glowing green letters telling me that it's 2:57 am. “What are  _ you _ doing?”

“Talkin’ to you.” There's sounds of shuffling on his end. “I’m outside of your apartment.”

I fall back onto my pillows. Breathe in, breathe out. I close my eyes. I say “can I ask why?” but I already know the answer.

“No!”

“Bren, it’s three in the morning.”

“Come on, it’ll be like the Simon and Garfunkel song!”

_Yet I know as I gaze_ __  
_At my young love beside me_ _  
_ _The morning is just a few hours away_

“Can’t say I know the one,” I mumble, but move to get out of bed anyway. “Give me a few minutes and i’ll be down.”

Brendon says “Kay!” Then hangs up.

I pull on jeans from yesterday and a sweatshirt, not bothering with a t-shirt. I find socks that don’t match in the piles of clothes on my floor, tugging them on as I attempt to quietly shut my bedroom door. How did I get stuck with the squeaky door again?

(It was the largest bedroom in the apartment. I can fit all of my instruments in here without crowding the living space. And, because I’m the tallest, needed the extra leg room. Somehow, the other guys bought it)

Brendon is leaning against a street lamp outside of the building, staring at his phone. The bright bluish light illuminates his face in a way that shouldn’t be very flattering, but he wears it well. It disappears as he turns his phone off when I approach, and he grins at me. “Good morning, Dallon James Weekes!”

I want to throw his phone at him, but instead I roll my eyes and shove my hands in my sweatshirt pockets. “The sun isn’t out, so it isn't morning.”

He looks at me expectantly. I add, “Brendon Boyd Urie.”

That satisfies him, so he begins to walk, and I follow. He’s wearing a beanie and his glasses, making him look a little older. His hair still hangs in his face, and even though I’m sober, I still want to brush it away. But I don’t.

We walk in comfortable silence for a little while, and walk seemingly in no particular direction. Eventually, Brendon reaches into my pocket and grabs my hand. Somehow it's warmer, even though it’s October in Chicago. My entire body feels like it's been put inside an oven.

“Brendon,” I say a little while later, “what are we doing?”

Brendon stops and lets go of my hand and _no that's not what I meant_.

“I want coffee. There's a 24 hour place up here, I think.” He starts walking again and I want to rip his head off.

I follow, because that’s all I know how to do.

The coffee shop is totally empty sans the man behind the counter, who looks like he’s one grande caramel latte from a mid-life crisis. Brendon orders just that, and I swear the man considers spitting in his drink. I get a black coffee and Brendon pays, because I can’t even afford a wallet.

We leave, and I only keep one hand around my coffee. Just in case.

It must be nearing four am now, but I can feel the effects of the coffee kicking in. Brendon usually starts to get jittery when he drinks coffee, usually doesn't _drink_ coffee because it makes his ADD flare up, but he is oddly quiet next to me. I want to scream.

We stop in a park I didn't know existed, and sit down on a bench, our shoulders touching and knees bumping, even though there is enough room for us to be sitting on opposite sides. I'm in an oven again. 

“Do you think we’re in control of our lives?” It’s Brendon who asks this.

I look at him quizzically. “I hope so.”

Brendon hums, looking down at his hands holding the paper cup. One slowly parts, finding mine. Our fingers lace together, but we’re not holding hands. Not quite. The backs of our hands are touching. They’re cold, but I’ve never felt warmer.

“I hope so too. Wouldn't it suck to find out you weren't in control of your life?” He looks at me, I look at him. What an odd pair, we are. 

“Where is this going.” It’s supposed to be a question, but it doesn't sound like one. “Are you afraid we’re in the matrix, or something?”

He laughs, and it sounds genuine. “I’m afraid of you.”

I open my mouth to ask why, why the hell would this guy I met at a party six months ago be afraid of me, why he let me sleep on his floor countless times until I got couch privileges? But I don’t get to, because his mouth is suddenly on mine, and I get it.

Because I’m afraid of him, too. I’m on fire, now. I’m being burned alive from the inside out and I don’t care.

When he moves back, we stare at each other for two, four, ten seconds, then burst into giggles. This was coming, we both knew. We press our foreheads together, our cold noses brushing, and I can’t stop giggling. There’s a joke in here somewhere, and we’re the punchline. My hand comes up to hold the side of Brendon’s neck, and I don’t know where to go from here. Home? His place? His mouth?

I kiss him again. 

 

-

 

_ From: beeb    5:47 am _

_ do u think that guy spit in my drink??? _

 

_ To: beeb    5:48 am _

_ will you GO TO BED?? _

 

-

 

Brendon knows Joe, because of Dan, and Ryan, kind of, but that’s it. I’ve told him about the others, of course I have, but he hasn’t met them. He’s nervous, I can tell, but says he isn't. We’re standing outside of my building, like we were four months ago at three in the morning, but this time it’s only four in the afternoon. Supposedly dinner awaits us upstairs, but I question the authenticity of that statement.

“What if they don’t like me?”

“They will.” I shove my hands in my pockets and lean back on my heels. They will, of course they will. I'm afraid of whether or not Brendon will like  _ them _ .

“But what if they-” I shut him up with a kiss and drag Brendon up the stairs, opening the door.

“They will,  _trust me_ . If they don’t like you, which they will, they have issues.”

Brendon smiles at me nervously, so I let go of his hands and start walking up the five flights of stairs, Brendon trailing behind me. By flight four I can hear the music and the noise from the apartment, and wonder if Brendon has caught on yet.

We stand outside of the door, ready to enter, but Brendon is staring at me. “That's a lot of noise.”

I grin, then say “I know, isn’t it great?” and push the door open.

Josh is immediately at the door, grinning like a wild man. He pulls Brendon into a hug, and I’m forced to let go of his hand that I hadn’t been aware I was holding. “Brendon Urie! The man that tamed Dallon Weekes!”

I shut the door, shrugging off my shoes. “Actually, much like Miley, I can’t be tamed.” Josh releases Brendon, who looks at me with wide eyes. I just smile at him and move further into the apartment.

In the kitchen and dining area, Pete is busily stirring something while Gerard, Ray, Spencer, and Andy play a very intense game of  _Barbu_ . Ray is winning, but the others appear close behind. Brendon enters behind me, looking thoroughly confused.

Pete holds out a hand, Brendon takes it. “I’m Pete, I’m sure you've heard all about me. They’re playing the locale favorite card game that I won’t bother explaining to you.”

Brendon glances at me, and I shrug. I look into the bowl that Pete has stopped stirring and find some sort of batter. I don’t question it. “How long until dinner?”

Pete glances at the card game. “Well we  _ were _ going to eat at the table, like civilized adults,” Pete looks pointedly at the card players. Spencer flips us off, “but if their card game keeps going we could make do in the living room?”

Both me and Pete look at Brendon, who physically shrinks. “Hey, don’t make me choose.”

We move onwards to the living room, where Josh has rejoined Patrick, Frank, and Jon on the worn out couch, halfway through a level in Mario Kart. We stop in the doorway, and I lean over to my boyfriend, whispering behind my hand. “Frank currently holds the trophy, but it's statistically likely that Josh will be taking it back in the twelfth round tonight.” Brendon looks up at me, a grin behind his eyes. “I put my bet on Patrick, though, because I like to support the little guy.”

I motion to the fairly large piece of poster board duct taped to the wall. The Mario Kart leaderboard has been around since we first moved to this apartment, and hasn’t changed much, artistically. It looks like it was designed by a fourth grader, decked out in glitter glue and stickers. There are four spots on the board. ‘PATRICK’ written in green glitter glue, ‘JOSH’ written in neon yellow puff paint, ‘FRANKIE’ in sparkly red sharpie, and ‘OTHER?’ In boring, normal marker.

“The other? is the fourth player that joins in for fun. It’s Jon, right now, the poor soul.” We look to the screen and see that Jon is in last place. Brendon stifles a laugh. Tyler is in the beanbag, reading a book, while Joe is standing with his arms folded behind Jon, yelling at him, because he bet on other?. Not many people have the guts.

“If you’ve got a few dollars you could add to the pool, if you want,” Mikey says from behind us. Brendon stares at the ziplock bag labeled ‘DEADPOOL’ suspiciously. “This is pretty much the only money in the apartment that doesn't go towards our alcoholism and borderline weed problem.”

“Where does it go, then?”

The corners of Mikey's lips twitch, which is about as close to a smile as you can get if you aren't Pete or Gerard. “Well, half of it goes to the winner of the week, the other half to the Christmas decoration fund.”

Brendon looks like he isn't sure if Mikey is serious or not.

(He is)

“Who’s to say the winner doesn't buy alcohol or weed?”

I tap my nose twice and smile down at him. Brendon smiles, too, and starts to look less nervous. “Brendon, meet Michael James Way, also known as Mikey, also known as a slut for Pete Wentz.”

Mikey winks. Brendon pulls out two dollar bills and tosses them into the bag.

“Your donation is greatly appreciated.”

Our attention turns back to the game, where Frank has pulled ahead of Josh. Joe is watching with much anticipation; biting his nails and pulling his hair. Mikey moves around us, falling onto the beanbag next to Tyler. I consider joining them, but Brendon has to properly meet Ryan, who has yet to make an appearance.

I take Brendon’s hand, moving to Ryan’s door, the source of the loud music. “Ryan’s being a hermit,” I say with an eye roll, “he’s the root of all evil.” Brendon doesn't ask me to elaborate.

I knock, but don’t bother waiting. Anything embarrassing that Ryan could be doing can’t be worse than what I’ve already witnessed in this house. The good news is that he doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything, laying on his bed with his phone near his face. His speakers are playing a song I don’t recognize, but it isn’t classical, rock, or 90s pop music so that isn’t that great of a feat.

“Is this German?” Brendon asks, and Ryan sets his phone down, rolling onto his side so he is facing us.

“Mikey hijacked my Bluetooth forty minutes ago and I’m too lazy to tell him to fuck off.”

“Ah.” Brendon looks around the room, which is tiny. Every surface is covered in some form of literature or paper. I couldn’t tell you the color of the walls underneath posters. 

Ryan sits up in bed and reaches over to turn off the speakers. The German woman suddenly stops singing. My ears ring a little. It's a series of unfortunate events.

Ryan stands and holds out a hand. He doesn't even need to cross the room to greet us. Brendon takes his hand and says, “last time I met you, you were drunk off your ass.”

Ryan shakes his hand and smiles. “Or high.”

I turn off the light as we leave the room. “Or both.”

Frank, Josh, Patrick, and Jon are in between games. Joe is rubbing Jon’s shoulders in a mock boxing coach way, Frank is massaging the knuckles of his thumbs, and Patrick and Josh are deciding which level to play next.

“Who won?” Ryan asks, leaning over the cushions of the armchair that Pete had taken over.

“Patrick, which throws Josh’s odds,” Pete answers. “He could still win, but he has to win the next four. If Frank or Patrick wins, it’s game over man.”

“Or Jon,” Joe says weakly. Mikey shakes the deadpool. Change jingles in time to the cheerful music of the game.

I lean over the armchair to look at Pete. “Aren’t you cooking dinner?”

“I got kicked out by the card game brigade. I’ll just order a pizza.”

Tyler moans, rolling over to his back. “I’ve never loved you more, Peter.”

Mikey hits Tyler with the deadpool. “Hands off.”

I look over at Brendon, who is studying the people around me. “Yellow hair is Josh, short one with glasses is Patrick, short one with tattoos is Frankie, Tyler is getting hit with the money, and Jon is the one getting sensually rubbed by Joseph.”

Jon winks, then pats Joe’s hands. “Joe here is my sugar daddy.”

Joe scoffs. “I’m too poor for that.”

“It's okay, I still love you.”

I feel Brendon’s presence next to me, and I lean down to place my lips against his forehead. He breathes in, breathes out. Grabs my hand, laces our fingers together. Warmth spreads through me, like it always does. The others are talking, making noise around us. But I can’t hear them.

“I’m so in love with you,” I tell Brendon earnestly. It’s true. It’s  _ so _ fucking true.

 

-

 

_ From: dallons sugar daddy    2:12 am _

_ do u think ur friends liked me??? _

 

I look over at Brendon in bed next to me. He’s pretending to be asleep.

 

_ To: dallons sugar daddy    2:12 am _

_ I think they loved you _

 

Brendon’s phone buzzes twice. He sneakily moves his hand underneath the covers so he can retrieve his phone, keeping his eyes closed as he does. I scoff and roll over onto my side so I am not facing him. His legs move back to brush mine, interconnecting our legs. We fit like two puzzle pieces.

The wall I am facing lights up as Brendon opens his phone. I count the seconds. One. Four. Ten.

The light turns off as Brendon turns off his phone, turning to face me. He wraps a hot arm around my waist and kisses along the line of my back and my shoulder. “I love you,” he says against my skin.

I turn to face him, go to kiss him, but miss and find my lips meeting his eye instead. I make up for it as I begin to pepper his face in kisses, and he laughs, loud enough for Josh on the other side of the wall above us to knock against the plaster. “Some of us are trying to sleep,” he says groggily, then says nothing else.  
It’s dark, but I can just make out the lines of a smile. Yes, love. Definitely, totally, absolutely, love.

**Author's Note:**

> fun stuff i wanted to put in the fic but couldn't:
> 
> -Ryan met Jon in class and Spencer at two am in the front hall of their dormitory  
> -Gabe intentionally schedules that party on Dallon's birthday year after year  
> -speaking of Gabe, the infamous dive off the roof was just him drunkenly falling into the pool. He was mostly clothes, but came up naked. Drunken feats, man.  
> -Ryan didn't have a job or a girlfriend that summer. He was just holed up in his house, like the hermit he is  
> -Brendon caught the drumstick that Josh threw into the crowd at the concert  
> -it was actually Spencer's idea for Josh and Patrick to follow Dallon on that date
> 
> mario kart stuff (because the lore for this deserves it's own shout out):
> 
> -Brendon eventually replaces the 'other?' option  
> -Tyler made the leaderboard  
> -Frank's version of choice is Double Dash, and likes to pair up Waluigi and Peach  
> -Patrick's version of choice is Wii, and plays strictly toad  
> -Josh's version of choice is N64 but is partial to SNES, and dabbles with Bowser and Yoshi  
> -Mikey was the first and only 'other?' to win before Brendon replaced the option  
> -Pete has never chosen the wrong winner  
> -Jon and Gerard have never chosen the right winner
> 
> if you have any questions about this universe or any questions in general, feel free to ask me on my tumblr: tenlittle-cockbites


End file.
